The Curse
by mya
Summary: A "Counterpoint" side story, this takes place before the events of the games. Enjoy!


  
  
  
THE CURSE  
  
By Mayavan Thevendra  
  
  
Barber threw himself to the floor as the window next to him exploded. Beneath a shower of glass, and with his face pressed against the carpeted floor, he heard the rampant chatter of rifle fire on the street, some twenty feet below. Plaster and concrete flew apart around him, and one of the ceiling lamps above him burst into a sparkling cloud of fluorescent powder and plastic. From somewhere behind, amidst the litter of office desks and conference chairs, a voice, which sounded something similar to gravel being shovelled, cried out.  
  
"Cover those windows!"  
  
Barber rolled to the side, and squinted upwards. Three figures; marines, in grey fatigues and light combat vests leapt forward, and with rifles planted onto the windowsills, they began to fire down onto the street. He winced as the thunder of gunfire erupted around him, and clutched his own rifle to his chest. A hundred firecrackers sounded out; the air streaked, zipping and snapping as more fire poured in through the windows.   
  
"Get the wounded inside!" shouted the voice. "And barricade the doors!"   
  
In his communications earpiece, Barber could hear screams of pain, as one of the marines still outside died with his radio channel open. He glanced across at the flight of stairs that his unit had taken up from the street in front. A group of his squad-mates was frantically dragging the unit's wounded up to the first floor, surrounded as they ran by sparks and wisps of shattered masonry, as gunfire chased them inside. A dull thump and a puff of red to Barber's right caught his attention, and a marine at one of the windows, Private Rice, fell cursing to the floor, clutching a hand to the side of his neck.  
  
The voice shouted again.  
  
"Barber!"  
  
Twenty three years in the Confederate Medical Corps had given Lieutenant Dan Barber a good run of it, but by his reckoning, he was getting a little old to go traipsing around a war zone, dodging bullets. With blasted ceiling tiles raining down around him he crawled over to Private Rice, and pried his hand away. It was a messy wound, but not life threatening; an anaesthetic wrap retrieved from his belt was enough to control the bleeding, as well as deaden the pain. With a hoarse, and decidedly irritated grunt, Barber dragged Rice back towards the centre of the room. A crash sounded out from below, as the doors to the outside were blocked shut with broken furniture.   
  
"Stocker, Hewlett, Le Good," growled the voice, "find a back door to this place!"  
  
The three breathless marines crouched near the stairwell rose to their feet, and bolted away down a corridor on the eastern side of the room, out of sight.  
  
"Barber."   
  
It was a strange voice, in that it kept the same jagged timbre whether it was whispering or shouting aloud. Barber looked up, and into the shadowed eyes of Commander Ingo Deist.  
  
"Get the wounded into that office, over there." He said, nodding over to the rear of the room. "Lawton, give him a hand."  
  
As the two of them began to pull the injured marines into one of the back offices, Barber caught a glance through one of the windows. The streets of New Ciranna City were burning. Scorched, wrecked husks of automobiles and trucks were scattered across the square; the hulking department stores and office blocks of the central district were ravaged beyond all recognition, some had been consumed by sweeping infernos, others had been practically demolished by heavy weapons fire. The carcasses of the dead were flung here and there like so much trash, left to rot in the sun.   
  
The world of Landra Minor was now in a state of utter revolt. While the Guild Wars raged off-world, the Landrans, a slender, swarthy looking people, had decided to throw off the yoke of Confederate rule. Major cities all over the planet, having been bled for decades by Confederate taxes and export laws, had made a concerted effort to crush the resident military forces into submission. With Landra Minor having been a principal supplier of arms and vehicles to the Confederacy for nearly a century, the guerrillas had proven to be a formidable opposition to the local garrisons. Firefights that had begun in the city's residential areas had finally reached the central district a week ago, and as the civilian population fled, anarchy hit New Ciranna like a cannonball. Widespread rioting, looting and unrestrained violence against Confederate forces had turned what had been a bustling industrial metropolis into a battleground.  
  
After a minute, the gunfire at the windows stopped, and Deist yelled out.  
  
"Report!"  
  
"Street's clear sir," gasped Private Swann, who had managed to hit and kill four of the Landran guerrillas, "hostiles have withdrawn to the other side of the plaza."  
  
The marines crouched out of sight, poised, with rifles ready. The sounds of conflict continued on in the distance; the rumble of an explosion, the sporadic clatter of weapons fire. Private Stocker's voice sputtered through into the marines' earpieces, and the unit listened in as he reported back.  
  
"Sir, there's a fire exit at the back. It's all clear."  
  
"Good," Deist replied into his microphone, "Stay put. Make sure it stays that way."  
  
The remainder of the unit took up firing points at the windows, while the XO of the unit, Lieutenant William Toyer, scuttled up the stairwell, and crouched down next to Deist. The right shoulder of his combat vest was slick with blood, and it was streaked across his face and neck.  
  
"Door's secure. Saul an' Cryan are watching it." He said. "I figure there's maybe fifty of those bastards across the courtyard from us."  
  
"At least." Snarled Deist.  
  
"And I just heard on the wire, the 44th mobile armour got 'emselves wasted. They got caught in an ambush over at South Central, so there's bound to be more unfriendlies on the way. Do we hold here, or do we rabbit?"  
  
"We hold." muttered Deist. "If we fall back to North End, it'll take us days to get back here. We stick it out." He said, looking Toyer in the eyes, "How many casualties?"  
  
"We just lost Janson outside. That's five dead." Toyer said, quietly. "Twenty eight of us left, including our wounded. We'd better hope for friendly company sometime soon."  
  
Deist rubbed the bridge of his nose, and blinked. Five dead. A girl and four boys, practically kids, like most of the others; fresh out of basic training, and ready for a life of adventure in the Marine Corps. And now they were dead. There was a word for it, but Deist kept it to himself, and crept back to the office to check on the wounded. He watched Barber finish up, and then took him outside the door.  
  
"Four wounded, not counting Rice over there," said Barber, "Sharlot took something in the face, a ricochet, or debris, or something. She'll live, but she's as good as blind. Harris took a round in the thigh; Makenna took two, one in the shin, one in his gun arm. I've stopped any bleeding, and I've given them all something for the pain. They'll make full recoveries, providing we can get them back to Medical."  
  
Deist peered through the window at the fourth marine, whose combat vest had been removed, and had been covered with a thick antiseptic wrap.  
  
"Reynolds?" asked Deist.  
  
Barber shook his head. "He's critical. He took three shotgun blasts at close range; most of his guts are still on the sidewalk somewhere out there. What's left of his torso's been cauterised, and I've put him under, but he's already gone into shock once, and I don't think I can stop it happening again. If it does…"   
  
He didn't need to finish. Deist gave a nod, and then slowly picked his way through the wreckage towards the front windows. The building they had stolen into lay more or less on the edge of the wide square in front. A clock tower, a shopping mall, several lines of shops; all lay wrecked, mere echoes of what the city had been only a week ago. Welcome to New Ciranna, he thought.  
  
"Lieutenant, get on the radio to Shin Tor, find out how long we have to wait before they can reinforce us."  
  
The Shin Tor Confederate base camp lay about an hour's hike north of the city; it was only the night before that they had all set out from there, accompanied by two other platoons. A number of volunteer squads were being held back in reserve, but with the morning's recent events, it was likely that most of them would already have been activated. Deist knew what dispatch was going to say, even before Toyer replied.  
  
"Sir, it's not looking too good," Toyer whispered, packing away his radio set, "according to 'spatch, reserves are already spread pretty thin. They're bringing down some troops from the Alta territory; they should get to us sometime tomorrow morning, if all goes well."  
  
"Hmph. It figures."  
  
For just a moment, Deist remained rooted to the spot, gazing through what was left of one of the windows. At the rear of the bureau, Barber was busying himself as best as he could.   
  
Harris and Makenna, having only suffered wounds to their limbs, were in relatively good shape; they'd recovered from the initial trauma of being shot, and in a little while, he could have their squad mates prop them up against a window, so that they could at least contribute some covering fire for the unit. Sharlot however, would have to be led around by the hand for the remainder of this mission, however long that turned out to be. A hefty wrap of bandaging masked the upper half of her face, and the distress of her injury was held fast behind gritted teeth and clenched hands. Barber figured that if they ever got back to Shin Tor, the chances were fair that she'd recover at least some of her sight. If she was lucky, she could have a life after this. She might even enjoy the luxury of growing old. As Barber looked over into the pallid, clammy face of Private Tommy Reynolds, he knew that such things were now and forever beyond the young soldier's reach. Reynolds was going to die on Landra Minor. Barber tried to give himself a quiet moment amidst the storm, but it lasted barely even a second.  
  
"Sir, hostiles! Ten o' clock!"  
  
The call came from the westernmost window, and following the direction of Private Grigg's rifle, Deist could see a small band of Landrans moving through the interior of the burnt out shopping mall on their left, heading directly towards them. Glancing across the square, he caught sight of another group approaching on the right, using debris and scattered piles of rubble as cover. Springing to his feet, he barked an order to his unit.  
  
"Squad two, target right! Pin them down!"  
  
In unison, the seven members of the unit's second squad opened fire across the square to the right, and brought the advancing Landrans to a standstill; most of them dived to the ground beneath the flurry of dancing rifle spikes, and one fell limp as his face was abruptly driven through the back of his head.   
  
"We don't have the fire coverage that we need," hissed Deist to Lieutenant Toyer. "It won't take them long to surround us, and then trap us in like rats."  
  
"I'll take my squad back down onto the street, we'll give them a little surprise if they get too close." Suggested Toyer  
  
"Alright, do it." Deist turned back to the marines and yelled another order. "Squad one, two and four, fire cover!"  
  
Toyer took charge of the third squad, and led sprinting them out of the bureau. Even while the marines filed out towards the rear of the building, Deist saw yet more Landrans venturing closer from their derelict stronghold on the other side of the square. He turned on his heel, and darted forward to take position at a window; at his side the firing started again as the second squad attempted to snipe their new targets, ripping the air with staccato bursts. At precisely that point, time slowed to a crawl. Deist was running full pelt towards the far wall, when a scream, seemingly louder than any roaring din that could be spat out by an automatic rifle, broke the air like a clap of thunder. He very nearly flung himself to the floor out of instinct; as it was, he came skidding to a stop, and looked back towards the rear office, from where the sound had apparently come. In a frozen moment, he looked through the open doorway, and saw Barber struggling to control Reynolds as he violently convulsed on the floor. Part of his dressing was ripped loose, and Deist saw flashes of ravaged flesh and blasted organs as he twisted and shook. His jaw was wide open, gaping, gasping, locked in a ghastly expression of horror, and suddenly Deist saw his eyes; Reynolds was staring right at him.   
  
OH GOD  
  
The air was baking, but a sudden, biting chill washed over Deist's face. For no reason he could imagine, at that moment all he could think about was Tommy Reynolds.  
  
WHAT'S  
  
WHAT'S HAPPENING?  
  
It had been less than ten minutes ago.  
  
They were a new platoon; the 172nd, conscripted less than three months before, and, aside from the officers and a couple of veterans, they were completely lacking in any combat experience. It was Deist's first real command, but he had quickly managed to build a rapport with the marines under his charge. As well as this, there was a strong bond within the unit; there were no loners, no bad seeds, no rebels or mavericks. They worked as a team, the way they were trained to do. But for those first few seconds, when the Landrans had opened up with their assault rifles from the shadowed windows above the street, and Private Dean Lowry became the first of them to die, when they heard Deist's rasping command to fall back, and the sound of screaming filled their ears, it all fell to pieces. In that instant, in those seconds, they were children. Or else, they were animals, slaves to their instincts as they flew from danger, scrambling and bawling, running for their dear lives.  
  
I CAN'T FEEL MY ARMS  
  
SOMEBODY  
  
OH GOD SOMEBODY PLEASE HELP  
  
Tommy was one of those guys who had a line for any situation you could think of. You'd be sitting in six inches of freezing cold water, with nothing but eight hours of night watch to look forward to, and then suddenly Tommy would come out with a funny gag, and make things seem that little bit brighter. He made an ass of himself every chance he got, but when it came down to being a marine, he was a solid as a rock. When the rest of the unit ran, he stayed put, but not because he was brave; he stayed because he was lying limp in a lake of his own blood. One of the Landrans, practically a kid himself, had popped up from behind a car to Tommy's side and opened fire with a combat shotgun. The first shot knocked him to the ground; the Landran then broke cover, leapt forward and fired again. The second shot blew away what little was left of Tommy's combat vest, and blasted his chest open. The third came from a hot muzzle that was pressed brutally into his ravaged gut, singeing flesh and then destroying it, as it spat out another slug.  
  
I'M SO COLD  
  
I CAN'T  
  
I CAN'T SEE ANYTHING  
  
PLEASE GOD I'M SO SCARED  
  
Deist had watched it happen. Most of them had. But it was Lieutenant Toyer who had reacted first. While Deist was slight, and unimposing in figure, Toyer was the opposite. Two hundred and thirty odd pounds of huffing physique and Confederate combat gear came shoulder barging into the guerrilla, who was stooping too close to Tommy to risk firing at. He went flying, and had barely landed when Toyer pinned him to the ground with a burst from his rifle. He was lucky; as the metal spikes lanced through him, he died quickly; no pain, no shock, no gurgling, lingering death. But Tommy was still conscious as Toyer hauled him over his shoulder and ran hollering towards cover. His hands had curled into knotted fists, and he nodded drunkenly, lost in some trauma-induced haze. Chaotic fire from the rallying marines felled half a dozen more of their assailants, and as Deist directed them into the empty office block, Tommy slipped away.   
  
As if waking from a dream, Deist blinked, and found his earpiece blaring with the renewed sounds of battle.   
  
He turned, and quickly took up a firing position; Barber had been vaguely aware of him watching, but paid little attention either to him, or to the cannonade of fire being volleyed out from the windows. He had rather more pressing things to worry about. Tommy was going into shock; he had already strapped a respirator mask around Tommy's mouth, and injected an oxidiser into his bloodstream. The only thing left that he could do was to hold him down as he convulsed. Barber had been here before, cradling some young soldier in his arms while they spluttered and blew bubbles of blood, the life ebbing from them with every shivering gasp. He'd done it and seen it more times than he wanted to think about. But this was different; something was different. He could think of nothing, save for the broken young man who was twisting in his grip. Tommy's name and face invaded every thought in his head, and the sight of him being gunned down in the street flickered in his mind like a snapshot; but there was more. He felt a pain, growing, gnawing at his belly, and suddenly Barber could taste blood in his mouth.   
  
WHERE'S MOM?  
  
WHERE'S MOM?  
  
NO  
  
NO DON'T   
  
Two more of the Landrans fell to the barrage, but they held their position, perhaps a dozen more of them crouching behind cars and shopping trolleys, blasting the building's face with dogged resolve.  
  
"Report Lieutenant!" said Deist. Through the clamour, Toyer's voice came crackling across his headset.  
  
"No line of sight yet, sir! They're not close enough. But we got four men on each side of the building; we'll rip 'em up as soon as we see 'em!"  
  
Another guerrilla was struck to the ground, a wet scarlet spurt curling from his neck. Deist flinched as brickwork exploded above his head, showering him with dust.   
  
DON'T   
  
DON'T DO IT  
  
One of the Landrans made a desperate rush forward to the front entrance; five of the marines turned their fire towards him, tearing him to bloody rags.  
  
DON'T HURT MY FRIENDS  
  
Deist had lined up a clear shot. One of the rebels was snaking his way between the stone pillars supporting the front of one of the structures on the left side of the square; he was a good eighty feet away, but Deist had a knack for making long shots. He held his breath, and glared along his sight, until the world outside of his target began to shimmer. Metallic death rained around him; a gentle squeeze, and eighty feet away a man's life ended with an echoing crack, and all of a sudden Deist's head went light.  
  
I CAN SEE YOU  
  
I CAN SEE YOU  
  
I WON'T  
  
I WON'T LET YOU HURT THEM  
  
Deist could be a little distant at times. Nobody knew a great deal about him, which suited him just fine; but being the commander of a unit meant that he had to be accessible, at least to some degree, to those under his charge. Whether he wanted to be or not, no one could say. As it turned out in the end, he didn't have to work too hard to gain his unit's trust. During their basic training on Lobis Kel, the recruits had spent one of their nights off touring the local nightspots. In the small, and slightly backward borough they found themselves in, however, it didn't take them long to get into trouble. A gathering of industrial workers who had recently received a significant pay-cut due to Confederate trade statutes, didn't take too kindly to a bunch of marine recruits littering up their drinking hole. Fortunately, Deist had chosen the same bar to spend his evening, although he had been somewhat more discreet about his military background. The workers had gotten themselves fired up about the whole thing, and were on the verge of piling into the marines, when Deist stepped in to diffuse the situation. He'd had a few drinks himself, and whenever he thought back to that night, he could never quite remember exactly what it was that the worker in front of him had said. It must have been bad, whatever it was, because Deist threw him a left hook that sent him sprawling across a table. Not surprisingly, things didn't really improve after that.  
  
At the end of the night, twenty-two members of the unit, including Deist, had been admitted to the base's infirmary. The recruits carried on laughing and joking until they were discharged the next morning, and Deist was with them the whole time, smiling his quiet, watchful smile, and listening to each one of them give their own unique account of the fight. Tommy had claimed he'd wrapped a barstool around the neck of "the biggest motherfucker since God", and could barely remember being dragged out of the bar with a black eye, two fractured ribs, and the biggest grin his squad mates had ever seen. In the space of two hours, Deist had won their approval and then some. And all it took was a broken arm.  
  
In the end, he accepted responsibility for the incident, receiving a slap on the wrist from Command, and a punch in the arm from Toyer because he hadn't been there. They were his unit now. All he had left to do was give them a name.  
  
LISTEN  
  
PLEASE OH PLEASE LISTEN TO ME  
  
Deist opened his eyes. At first he thought he had blacked out, but eighty feet away, the Landran he had shot through the chest was still falling to the ground.  
  
TURN AROUND  
  
His ears felt as though they'd been stuffed with cotton wool; every sound, every gunshot, was muffled and distant, and the scent of blood filled his nostrils. His stomach twitched, as though an icy fist had wormed its way inside of him, and was probing with jagged fingers. And then on the edge of everything, he thought something. He didn't hear it, and he didn't feel it. He thought it.  
  
TURN AROUND  
  
Deist shook his head, and not quite knowing why, he looked behind him. He saw a mess of broken furniture and debris. He saw dozens of bullet holes in the roof and along the walls. He saw Barber in the office, struggling to keep hold of Tommy.   
  
NO  
  
TURN AROUND  
  
He shook his head again, and rubbed his mouth. When he took his hand away, there was blood on it.   
  
TURN AROUND  
  
TOYER  
  
"Tu-" mumbled Deist.  
  
TURN AROUND TOYER  
  
TURN AROUND TOYER  
  
He was panting hard, and the blood was almost dripping from his bottom lip. Deist turned back around, and looked through the window. The firefight raged on, and like a thunderclap, the terrible sounds of crying, of gunfire, shot back into his ears; the haze had lifted. Deist licked the blood from his lips, and swallowed.  
  
"Turn. Turn around, Toyer."  
  
Down on the ground, Lieutenant Toyer and three others from his squad had put twenty feet or so between themselves and the eastern side of the building; each was crouched in cover, and held their weapon at the ready. The sheer amount of wreckage in the square meant that neither he, nor his squad could clearly see any of the Landrans that the others were firing at; a grey movement, or a flash of yellow was all that they would get until the guerrillas moved closer. He was contemplating moving forward, when he thought he heard something in his earpiece.  
  
"Say again?" he said, holding his headset.  
  
Again, the message came, and there was no mistaking the gravelly voice as Deist's, but he was muttering, almost whispering.  
  
"Sir, say again," said Toyer, "I can't hear you."  
  
"Toyer turn around and look behind you!"  
  
Toyer spun, and glanced frantically behind him. The four of them had positioned themselves roughly in the near, left corner of the plaza, and a main road extended away to the rear, leading back north. Toyer scanned across it, but saw nothing. Amidst the rest of the rubble, there was an old dump truck about ten yards behind them, loaded in the back with burning heaps of trash. Narrowing his eyes, Toyer looked closer; beneath the truck, from the shadow cast by the early evening sun, the glint of metal suddenly appeared.  
  
"Hit the deck!"  
  
Automatic fire lit up the truck's underside, and Toyer dived to the ground as sparks leaped around him. The others were not quite so quick to respond; one of the sniper's bullets bounced off Corporal Welsh's combat vest, knocking him off his feet, another tore Private Simmons' rifle clear from his hands. Toyer emptied his clip at the truck; air exploded from its front tyres as they were ripped open, and once the other three marines had recovered, they added their fire to the target.   
  
"Hold it! Hold your fire!" Bellowed Toyer.  
  
While the others trained their rifles on the truck, Toyer rose to a crouch, and dashed forward. He peered underneath, and then after a moment, rose up to his feet.  
  
"S'alright, we got him!" he called back. Looking past the truck, he saw two more guerrillas sprinting away into the distance.  
  
"Bastards." He muttered, and then tugged his microphone. "Sir, we've got a little trouble. It looks like some of them are circling around the block just east of us; one of them snuck right up behind our position. He could've wiped out all four of us if you hadn't…"  
  
Toyer stopped, and looked up towards the marines' refuge in the office block. Another building adjacent to, and slightly behind it meant that most of the bureau was obscured from view. He realised quite abruptly that no one from inside could possibly have seen the dump truck, let alone what was underneath it.   
  
"Sir, are..." said Toyer quietly, "are you still in the bureau?"  
  
The sound of gunfire continued past the wreckage in front of them, but through Toyer's earpiece, there was nothing but silence. After a long pause, he heard Private Simmons shouting.  
  
"Sir, they're coming through!"  
  
Just ahead, to the side of the bureau, two of the Landrans ran into view. To Toyer, the world seemed to become strangely dim, and quiet. The other three marines cut the guerrillas down within seconds; a third ran into sight, leaping over the bodies of his comrades, and firing wildly with a submachine gun. Toyer was standing still, almost lost in his own thoughts, when the bullets ricocheting around his legs snapped him back. An instant later, the Landran died staggering backwards as gunfire poured into him.  
  
"Squad three!" yelled Toyer into his microphone, "Push forward, God damn it!"  
  
Simultaneously, Toyer's group, and the four on the opposite side of the building, ran forward into the fray. Weaving between the broken piles of debris, they attacked the guerrillas in front of the bureau from both sides; caught in a crossfire, they didn't last long. The Landrans that were far back enough to withdraw, did so, but for the ones within firing range, there was no mercy. Within a minute, the entire north end of the square was clear.  
  
Toyer leant against a lamppost, wheezing, and looked up at the rest of the unit through the bureau's windows.  
  
"Sir!" he shouted.   
  
It was loud enough for Deist to hear without a headset.   
  
"Report, Lieutenant."  
  
"Sir, Squad three is intact."  
  
"Fine. Return to your positions on the flanks, and hold."  
  
"But, sir…huh, how-"  
  
"Just do it, Lieutenant."  
  
Toyer stared up at Deist through a shattered window frame. Something was happening that he didn't understand; the hair on the back of his neck had prickled, and some small part of him was beginning to feel fear for the first time in years, but he trusted in his commander to do what was best. He gave a nod, directed his men back to the sides of the building, and disappeared from view.  
  
OH GOD  
  
OH GOD IT HURTS  
  
PLEASE  
  
PLEASE  
  
"All right everyone." Deist said, addressing the unit, "Stay sharp. We've stung them, but it won't take them long to recover."   
  
Squad one and two stayed on fire cover, and squad four joined Toyer and the others down on the street to protect against any further attacks from the side. Every member of the unit that could fire a gun had taken their position, and crouched waiting, and watching.   
  
Outside, the sun had begun to set, and the air was growing thick, and murky. Deist made his way back to the rear office; the three other wounded had been moved out to the side of the bureau, leaving Barber more room to look after Tommy. Deist walked in and found Barber kneeling on the ground wearily mopping his face with a towel.  
  
"I need to talk to you. Something's…" Began Deist.  
  
Barber coughed, and then took the towel away.  
  
"Jesus Christ."  
  
On first appearances, it looked as though someone had tipped a bucket of red paint over Barber's head, but as he stooped down, Deist saw clearly that it was blood, and it was practically streaming from his eyes, nose and mouth.  
  
"What happened?"  
  
"It's Tommy." Gasped Barber, as he wiped the blood off with his hand.  
  
OH PLEASE  
  
I CAN'T TAKE IT  
  
IT HURTS SO MUCH  
  
Deist already knew. He didn't know how, but deep within his own thoughts, something was calling out to him. Someone was calling.  
  
"Tommy." Whispered Deist.   
  
Tommy was still lying on the floor of the office. He was now motionless, and silent, and his eyes were shut but flickered as though troubled by dark dreams. Deist shut the door to the office, then reached forward and clutched Barber's arm.  
  
"I want you to tell me," Said Deist, his voice cracked and low, "what the hell is going on. I can hear things, in my mind. I keep thinking about, about…"  
  
"About Tommy."  
  
Deist's grip around Barber's arm tightened.  
  
"Tell me."  
  
Barber chuckled, but it was so bitter, it almost sounded as though he were sobbing. Deist let go of his arm, and stared at him.  
  
"Commander," he said at last, looking up, "have you ever heard of the C.G.P.?"  
  
Deist had heard of it. He'd heard the rumours, and he'd heard the horror stories passed around the mess halls. And then after all of that, he'd read the memorandum issued by Command which confirmed every rumour and every story as being cold, hard truth. Not everyone found out about it at the same time, military communication being what it is. For Deist, it was just over five months ago that he had first heard of the Confederate Ghost Program.  
  
I'M SORRY  
  
I DIDN'T MEAN TO  
  
I'M SORRY MOM  
  
"What are you, what are you saying, that he's, he's a…"  
  
"He's a telepath." Said Barber.  
  
Deist sat down onto the floor, and looked vacantly at Tommy.  
  
"He's not part of the program, sir, but he's grade A material, that's for damn sure. If this were five or, or ten years ago, then I'd put this down to combat stress. Fatigue. I could write the whole thing off as some kind of trauma induced hysteria, and I'd be confident that I'd made the right diagnosis." Barber said, shaking his head, "But this is now. And the existence of telepathy had been proven, scientifically."  
  
He emphasised the last word, as if to warn off any irrational, or superstitious fears his Commander might have had.  
  
"All of this," he continued, gesturing at his own bloody face, "it's all him. It's some kind of telepathic fallout."  
  
"But it's impossible." Said Deist, "They screened everyone. They started screening babies; they've already done everyone in the military. What happened three months ago, when the unit had theirs?"  
  
"His…ability, had been suppressed. Every trace of it; there was no way it could have been picked up."  
  
"How do you know that?"  
  
Barber's bleeding seemed to be easing up, and he dabbed his nose with a clean corner of his towel.  
  
"Because he told me."  
  
Deist stared back, saying nothing.  
  
"Commander, he's been…communicating with me. In the same manner as I think he's been communicating with you, and perhaps some of the others, but because I've been right next to him the whole time, well, the best way I can think to put it, is that I've heard more of the message."  
  
Leaning back against the office desk, Deist nodded.  
  
"All right. Go on."  
  
"Sir. Tommy had no idea that he was telepathic when he signed up with the Marine Corps. He was born on one of the fringe worlds; his mother was also a telepath, and somehow, for some reason, she had the foresight to teach him to suppress his talent at an early age, push it deep down where it couldn't be seen, not even by an encephalogram. She was relentless; she'd beat him or starve him if he showed any sign of it during his daily life. She wasn't a bad person, but she was desperate, terrified that anyone might find out what he was. I don't know if the C.G.P. existed back then, but she knew that the moment his ability was identified, his life would be over.   
But at some point, she died. I don't know how it happened, but I think Tommy was maybe only five or six at the time. He grew up in a hostel, went to school, and as he matured, his memories of his mother, and of his childhood faded away. He became a bright, energetic kid, who liked to draw and tell jokes, and who had no idea of what he actually was; and eventually he set his sights on the Corps. He in fact joined up out of a need to protect others, something that developed when he was still in the hostel. There was a young girl-"  
  
"Jayna." Said Deist, and looked into Barber's eyes. "I know this part. He…told me."  
  
Barber nodded, and looked on as Deist reached in deep, and tried to remember.  
  
"He took care of her, like a surrogate parent, but then one night they, they found her body in a dumpster. She'd been raped, and I blamed myself. I-I should have been there."  
  
"Sir."  
  
Deist glanced up, suddenly realising what he'd just said. Not "he blamed himself", but "I blamed myself". "I"  
  
Images suddenly flashed into his head: a girl's face, smiling and laughing, a dog-eared cuddly toy with one of its arms ripped off, and an alley, filled with police, and flashing lights.  
  
LEAVE  
  
MUST LEAVE  
  
MUST LEAVE NOW  
  
Barber cleared his throat, and carried on.  
  
"It was ironic that his mother tried so hard to make sure he wasn't caught, and then under his own steam, he ran right into the lion's jaws, so to speak; straight to the same Confederacy that she was so terrified of."  
  
"But if his ability was buried for all of these years, then what's happening now? Why is he using it?"  
  
"It was the physical trauma of being shot," asserted Barber, "I'm sure of it. It triggered something; somehow, his own survival instinct overcame all of the restraint, all of the inhibition that his mother had programmed into him. He's not even doing it consciously. His subconscious mind is reaching out, calling for help in a language that it's never properly used; that's what's causing all of these phenomena."  
  
Deist stood up, and sat on the desk. Tommy's face was drenched in sweat, his skin drained of all colour.  
  
"He screamed," Muttered Deist, "That's when I first heard him. You were holding him down, and he screamed."  
  
"Sir," Barber said softly, "Tommy doesn't have any lungs. He couldn't scream even if he wanted to."  
  
"But…"  
  
"Like I said. Telepathic fallout. I'm not an expert on psionics," said Barber, dabbing a wet rag on Tommy's forehead, "far from it. But I know that the C.G.P. is supposed to use some sort of dampening procedure to restrict telepathic abilities. That's how they can control their…recruits. Tommy doesn't have anything like that, not anymore. Without any control, without any restraint, he could kill us all."  
  
PLEASE  
  
PLEASE SOMEBODY HELP ME  
  
I DON'T WANT TO BE ALONE  
  
For a short while, Deist did nothing. But then he stood up once more, a bleak expression across his face, and his right hand drifted slowly, almost unwillingly towards his sidearm.  
  
"Well then, there's only one thing we can do."  
  
Barber looked up at his commander, and smiling softly, he shook his head.  
  
"Sir, please, you know you can't."  
  
"The hell I can't. He's endangering the rest of the unit. I won't risk twenty-eight lives to save one. He's, he's…"  
  
"What? A freak?" said Barber, "Is that what you're going to say?"  
  
Deist unfastened the strap to his holster, and gripped his pistol.  
  
I PROMISE  
  
I PROMISE I'LL DO BETTER  
  
JUST MAKE IT STOP  
  
"He's…"  
  
"Sir. It's Tommy. For God's sake, it's Tommy!"  
  
Deist's head sank, and he slowly sagged against the desk, his eyes closed.  
  
"Oh Jesus."   
  
It had been a long time indeed since Ingo Deist had shed a tear. Now, it was as though he was dying inside; the feelings of loss, bereavement, of regret, the feeling of a broken heart, tortures he had never once suffered during his own life, he now felt through Tommy's.   
  
"Oh Jesus. I can't…I can't get him out of my head."  
  
Barber rose to his feet, and gently put his hand on Deist's shoulder.  
  
"I think, somehow he's reaching out to you more than the others. He respects you; you're his authority figure, perhaps even his father figure."  
  
"Hah, a father figure." Said Deist with a sardonic grin. "He could have picked better."  
  
"Sir, there's something else," Barber said with a growing urgency, "We have to go. We have to get out of here, I don't care what our orders are, these are extenuating circumstances, if ever there were any. We're not going to last until reinforcements get to us. If we stay here, we're going to die, I can feel it."  
  
Outside, darkness was seeping across the skyline, and the low streaks of red and peach were retreating towards the horizon. The sounds of gunfire had stopped, even in the distance.   
  
"Sir."  
  
Deist rubbed his eyes, and stared down at Tommy.  
  
LEAVE NOW  
  
PLEASE LEAVE NOW  
  
PLEASE LEAVE NOW  
  
"Yes. I think that would be wise."  
  
Fastening up his sidearm, Deist gazed out through the office window.  
  
"I don't want this going out to the men, about Tommy."  
  
"Sir, take a good look," said Barber.   
  
As Deist watched his unit at their posts, he noticed three of them were wiping blood from their noses. Another was breathing hard, and clutching her stomach in pain.  
  
"I think they already know. Even if they don't know the whole story, they will soon."  
  
Deist sniffed, and nodded acceptingly.  
  
"All right, gather your gear, put a stretcher together and get ready to move out."  
  
He could sense it. Barber was right; it was more than the simple feeling of dread that comes from waiting for the enemy to attack, it was a certainty, and every one of them felt it. It was time to leave. Walking briskly into the bureau, Deist squinted out into the night; the fires that were still burning threw floating ash into the inky blackness above, and away in the distance, away in the darkness, something roared.   
  
"Listen up ladies and gentlemen. We're pulling out, as of now. I want this done quickly, and very cleanly. Squads three and four hold your position on the flanks until the rest of us have made it out the back, then pull back to join us. Lawton, Le Good, Stocker and Frykman, I want you four to give Lieutenant Barber a hand moving the wounded. All right, squads one and two, move out!"  
  
One by one, the marines at the windows darted from their posts, and hastened out of the bureau. Harris and Makenna, with wounded legs, were practically carried out, as was the blinded Private Sharlot, who didn't take very kindly to being thrown over her squad mate's shoulder. Tommy had been loaded onto a stretcher, and Barber and Le Good carried him quickly out into the heavy night air. In less than half a minute, the bureau was empty, and half a minute after that, the first two squads had gathered with the wounded in the parking area to the rear of the building. Deist was the last out, but before he could contact the other two squads, Toyer's voice came rasping into his ear.  
  
"Sir, we've got hostiles! At least forty, coming in from the south, and east! They've got a fucking walker with them!"  
  
"Pull back, now Lieutenant! Squads three and four, pull back!" cried Deist.  
  
On the other side of the office block, they heard it. Something that roared. Weapons fire split the air, heavier and louder than anything that they'd heard before. The third and fourth squads came sprinting around from the sides of the building, and Toyer waved his rifle in front of him.  
  
"Go! Go!" he screamed.  
  
Like a disturbed herd of animals, the 172nd broke into a sudden run; and from somewhere behind followed the unmistakable sound of a mechanised walker. A terrible cheer erupted, as a huge mob of Landrans spilled around the sides of the block, and started after them. Bullets ripped past the marines, and impacted against the rubble around their feet. One found its mark in Private Frykman's back, and as he fell, he dragged the wounded Harris down to the ground with him. A dozen rifles and machineguns were brought to bear on their struggling bodies, and while the rest of the unit ran on into the night, the two of them died in a hail of chattering gunfire.  
  
NO  
  
On and on the unit pushed, but with their wounded, they were not fast enough. To their sides, a dozen shadows darted past, leaping across paths and over cars.  
  
"They're overtaking us!" Yelled Toyer.  
  
"They're going to catch us in the middle!" panted Deist, and stole a fleeting look behind him, "Where's that damn walker?"  
  
He quickly got his answer. Private Richmond was running at full pelt; he'd thrown away his gun, and was gripping Sharlot across his shoulder with both arms. A whistling sound arced above him, and suddenly, the road in front of him exploded; he rolled to the ground, Sharlot tumbling on top of him. Something that was twelve feet tall leered down at them, something with two legs, and gatling machineguns instead of arms. Richmond held Sharlot close, and thanked God that she couldn't see, as the walker opened fire.  
  
NO  
  
Too many of the Landrans had passed them, some had fallen to the reckless, desperate shots of the marines, but not enough. From the darkness directly ahead of them, nozzle flares lit up the street as the shooting started again. As though slapped down by some giant hand, Toyer flew spinning onto his back, a chunk of his shoulder blasted away. Deist dived onto his front, and got ready to clear a path, but it was too late. They were surrounded.  
  
NO  
  
The Landrans didn't stop firing. There were forty or fifty of them closing in, all armed; from behind, above the mob's heads, the walker bounded forward, it's legs groaning and clicking, it's gatling arms pointed out in front, ready to roar. There was no remorse, no mercy, no such thing as a prisoner of war.   
  
Deist gave no order to return fire, or to grab cover; every member of the unit was already doing it. Orders were of no use any more, instinct reigned once again; they would not die as men and women, but as animals, gasping, shrieking, and clawing and clinging onto life until the very end. Tommy lay unmoving on his stretcher, cast to the ground in the midst of their last stand. Deist could see his face, and thought back to the night of the bar brawl. He remembered Jayna, even though he had never met her, and thought of all the people that Tommy wanted to protect, all the people that he could have saved.  
  
NO  
  
NO MORE  
  
NO MORE HIDING  
  
"I'm sorry Tommy." Spat Deist through gritted teeth, as a bullet pierced his elbow.  
  
NO MORE HIDING  
  
NO MORE HIDING  
  
I WANT TO SHOW YOU SOMETHING  
  
And then, silence. The fear that had been so thick, and so penetrating only a moment ago had lifted. Deist had shut his eyes tight, and upon opening them, he saw nothing at first but a white blur, as if waking from some long slumber, but soon the mist began to clear a little, and looking around, he saw his platoon. They were lying on the ground, and looked so tranquil, it almost seemed as though they were asleep. Toyer was there, to Deist's side, and was clutching his arm, but wasn't wounded in any way Deist could see. As he turned around, he saw all of the others in turn. He saw Barber, and Le good, and Stocker. And then he saw Tommy. Tommy was lying on his back, with his hands behind his head, and he was staring up at the sky. Deist pulled himself off the ground, and moved closer to look at him; he was smiling in that way that he always did, as though no matter what problem was coming around the corner, he was going to make it through in style. Deist reached out a hand, and through the haze, it seemed that Tommy turned to look at him, and laughed. He laughed like a boy.   
  
As if he had just been born, Deist awoke painfully back into the real world. His unit was still around him, but now they were bleeding, and filthy, and wracked with pain; and someone was crying. It took Deist a moment to realise that it was him. Toyer was lying in the dirt, twitching as if being electrocuted. Barber lay mere feet away and was stooped over, vomiting mouthfuls of blood and struggling for breath. Every member of the platoon writhed on the ground, as though the subjects of some hideous torture. The Landrans were standing around them, agog at the unholy spectacle before them; some merely stood with hanging jaws, others fearfully traced religious symbols in the air with their hands. But others pointed, and laughed, and waved their fists in triumph, and suddenly Deist felt anger as he had never felt before in his life. It was more than anger, more than rage; it was fury. It was Tommy's fury. Deist squirmed amidst the trash on the ground, even as his own throat filled with blood, and looked across at him. Tommy's eyes were wide open, and suddenly he screamed.   
  
The air grew freezing cold. Sounds and smells and vision blurred together into a horrific mesh; the noise coming from Tommy's mouth was white; it was blood, and pain, and the scent of long dead flesh. Like a shockwave, it ripped outward, unseen, and unheard, but felt, in every bone, in every nerve, and in every cell. Somehow it passed harmlessly through the contorted bodies of his unit; it passed through their flesh, and through their minds, rushing onwards and outwards, and leaving the marines, it reached the Landrans. Deist could barely see what was happening around them; none of the marines could. But what they did see was something they would forever wish to forget. Bodies were deformed and broken, as though the playthings of some monstrous, invisible child. Guns leapt into the air, filled with sudden life, and vicious intent, firing into the guerrillas until they were empty. The air whined as metal was rent, and the colossal walker collapsed to the ground, an ugly, twisted parody of itself. Fear returned, but not for the marines. The Landrans died cursing, and wailing, they died as flesh melted, and was set alight, and warped into shapes unimaginable. For a hundred yards in every direction, they died. All of them; every Landran who had attacked Tommy's unit perished that night. There were none left to tell the tale.  
  
And just like that, it was over. When the 172nd awoke, perhaps an hour had passed, perhaps two, they couldn't be sure. The nightmarish urban landscape of New Ciranna stretched around them, and they looked at it as though they were seeing it for the first time. The night air had become warm and still, but the stench of death seeped through it, surrounding them. Nothing stirred, and there was no sound to be heard at all, not the murmur of a breeze, not the rustle of litter. The gunfire had stopped, and as the marines dragged themselves to their feet, they saw the remains of their enemy; it was a level of butchery that they thought could only exist in nightmares. And yet, they were not driven to madness by it, or reduced to nauseous fits. They had already been through the worst of it, and now they looked on the carnage as men and women who knew that despite the horror of it all, it signalled the end of their ordeal. It was over.  
  
Gradually, each of them turned their bloodied eyes inwards, towards Tommy. He was dead. They knew that he had gone, just as they all now knew that it was he who had saved them. Every memory of his was now theirs to keep, every hope and fear, now theirs to feel. They stood in the shadows then, and honoured their friend; some mouthed his name, some remembered his voice and his laugh. And some wept, not for pain, or trauma or fear, but out of simple grief. They had lost their brothers and sisters that day, and the toll at last was paid. When they were done, they gathered themselves, and without a spoken word between them, they began to prepare for the day ahead.  
  
Eleven hours later, when the Confederate reserve troops finally arrived, the sun had returned to its high perch, and was scouring the blasted metropolis once again. Walking in from the north, the reserve troops found five pyres, still burning, piled high with the bodies of the enemy. They discovered the remains of a combat walker, practically obliterated by explosives. When they arrived at the plaza, they found the 172nd Confederate Marine Platoon sitting in the sun, watching the southern side for any signs of activity. Their dead had been laid out in the shade, and covered with blankets. After receiving Commander Deist's report of the situation, the Captain of the reserve forces radioed back to Shin Tor, and then promptly relieved them. The reserve troops quickly took up the marines' former positions, and prepared to push on south; after the platoon had collected their dead and their wounded, they formed up and began their journey back north, and out of New Ciranna City.  
  
  
------------------------------------------  
  
  
"That was some fine work you did down there, Ingo. A pity you lost as many as you did, but you gave it back to them in spades, and that's to be commended. The situation's finally starting to look good for us, and there are more platoons on the way. It's only a matter of time now till we get this thing under control, but I want you to know that you've helped lay the groundwork for it. In terms of a unit's first assignment, I have to say; I've rarely seen a kill ratio as impressive as the 172nd's. They're a fine bunch of soldiers. You should be proud."  
  
"I am, sir."  
  
It had been two weeks. Upon their release from the infirmary at Shin Tor, the nineteen surviving members of the 172nd had been shuttled to the Pine Teal orbital platform, some two hundred miles above the planet's surface. There they'd received a complete medical examination, and after a period of rest, were now awaiting the orders for their next assignment.   
  
Admiral Sanders' office was decorated with photographs of his military career; he'd spent his life roving from planet to planet, and now he seemed to have little left of the energy from his youth. The pictures were reminders, more than just mere souvenirs; reminders of what he had to go through to finally get that quiet, simple life he had wanted for so very long. He'd never told a living soul how much he hated being in the military, but Deist knew. The Admiral gave a sigh, and reached into his desk drawer.  
  
"Oh, this is yours. Hope you don't mind, but I asked the quartermaster to let me see it first; I was just curious."  
  
He dropped a thick, sewn patch onto the desk in front of him; Deist leaned down, and tentatively picked it up. It was circular, with an image of a single red eye against a yellow background. The number 172 was darned into the border around the edge, and framing the eye above and below, in broad black stitching, were the words:  
  
TOMMY'S CURSE  
  
Deist turned the patch around in his fingers, and stared solemnly at it.   
  
"The ones for your men haven't been done yet, so you can talk to him if you want it done differently…"  
  
"No, it's fine," said Deist, "…it's perfect."  
  
"Interesting choice of name for your unit. Any particular reason for it?"  
  
Deist shook his head, and smiled slightly. "Not really, sir. If that's all…"  
  
Admiral Sanders rose arduously to his feet, and offered his hand.  
  
"That's all Ingo. Your orders should come through in the next day or so, and I'll keep you posted about any potential transfers into your unit. Good day Commander."  
  
"Yes sir."   
  
Reflexively shaking the Admiral's hand, Deist then slipped the patch into his tunic pocket, and walked out.  
  
It was another busy day on yet another orbital platform. Officers chased their men from bars on the promenade, traders peddled exotic wares to passers-by, and technical crews worked on in the background. Deist stopped alongside a wide view panel for a moment, and stared out into space. Landra Minor shone up at him from below, a great dome of glowing blue and swirling grey. Away in the silent distance, cargo tugs drifted to and fro.  
  
No one knew. They had made sure of that; every fleshy monstrosity borne of that night had been incinerated; the walker that had been bent in ways that not even an industrial press could have done, had been reduced to scrap by detonator charges. Deist had written in his report of a ferocious battle, during which his unit had repulsed wave after wave of the enemy, but no one could ever know what had really happened during those five hours in New Ciranna, nor would they.   
  
And now, they waited. Elsewhere on the station, Barber was thinking back to a summer camp years ago that he had never visited in his life. Toyer was remembering the words to a song that he had never heard, but which made him feel safe, and tired. Private Le Good had recently discovered an aptitude for drawing that he had never possessed before. Deist could feel all of them. It was Tommy's legacy to his buddies. He had saved them, the way he had always meant to do, and in finally doing so, he had left something with them. A gift: nothing as powerful as his own, but it would keep them safe, and it would make them remember him. It was to be their secret. Even now, as Deist stood, and people passed by, he could hear words that hadn't been spoken; a colour here, a scent there; things that didn't make sense now, but would, in time. Soon others would join them, and eventually they too would receive the gift. As long as they were together, as long as they were a unit, then even death could not separate them; not one of them would ever be forgotten.  
  
But now there was a task ahead. They had seen through Tommy's eyes, and knew for the first time that there were such things as monsters. They hid in plain sight, and when they didn't slaughter people wholesale, they killed them little by little, day by day. They wore the skins of the corrupt, of the deceitful; they dressed as guerrillas who murdered young soldiers light years away from their homes and their families. They spoke with the voices of faceless men who raped and killed little girls; and they screeched in alien tongues, hiding in the shadows, and bearing claws like scythes. The 172nd had a name now, and they had a responsibility that they could not ignore.   
  
Ingo Deist rubbed his fingers against the emblem in his pocket, and gazing out into the stars, he thought in a language that he was only just beginning to understand.  
  
WE'LL GET THEM FOR YOU TOMMY  
  
I SWEAR  
  
WE'LL GET EVERY LAST ONE OF THEM  



End file.
